The Fortunate Favourite
by Amorisa
Summary: The first time he met her, she breezed into his city in search of information, the Thalmor on her heels. When she disappeared, she left nothing but questions in her wake. Now, the winter wind brings her back to him, seeking the sanctuary only he can provide. This time, his services will cost her - perhaps more than she is willing to pay. (Part of my "Archer's Paradox" series.)
1. Dire Straits

**Author's Note**: This is a sequel to my story "Borrowed Trouble" and the second(ish) part of my _Archer's Paradox _series. I am hoping I did a sufficient job of recapping in this chapter so that going back and reading isn't required - or possibly interested you enough to go give it a read. ;)

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**The Fortunate Favourite**

**Chapter One: Dire Straits**

* * *

The Goldenglow job had been simple.

_Dangerous_, but simple. And there was a lot riding on the outcome. The job had been – and still remained – _vital_ to the guild's future fortune and success. That was why he'd entrusted it to Vex. She was careful, and she was _good_. She'd promised to get the job done, and Brynjolf had all but put the worry out of his mind.

Vex would see it finished.

Maybe he shouldn't have been so eager. Maybe he shouldn't have sent her out there alone. Maybe he shouldn't have put so much faith into one person – gods above knew he should have learned that lesson by now. He'd always been a fast learner, but he could also be the most stubborn of pupils and it was always those around him who paid the price.

Another lesson yet unlearned.

Brynjolf had never expected it would spiral down to this. In the twenty years he'd run with the Riften thieves guild, he had seen his fair share of jobs gone wrong. Even his own luck had turned sour time and again. As was most often the case, there was no explaining it. Things just went south sometimes. It was the work, a part of the life. They were _thieves_, after all, grifters and outlaws who tempted fate, and were blessed or cursed by its favour.

Partners got pinched, lookouts got lazy, desperate people talked. Sure, it was ugly and most times avoidable, but it happened_._

But _this_ –

She was soaked to the bone, his little Vex, and her hair was strung with reeds. He had scarcely recognized her when he'd walked down the steps, huddled shivering as she was near the fire that was kept burning beneath the brewing vats. The cellar of the meadery was dark but for those licking flames, casting a ghoulish pall on everything their light touched. Vex, washed of colour, was little more than a ghost.

"_Shor's bloody bones," _he swore quietly as he knelt down next to her. Delicately, he reached up to brush away the bloody hair matted to her forehead. The gash there was impressive.

"Don't you d-dare start coddling me," she hissed, batting him away. "It's nothing, I'm fine."

But it wasn't nothing. She wasn't fine.

He stood and stepped back. He turned to Maul, lingering in the shadows.

"Thank you for the help, lad."

Maul shrugged his shoulders and kept his arms folded tight over his chest. "She's just lucky it was me who found her and not one of the guards," he said.

Brynjolf silently agreed with him. He was going to need more information soon, he needed to know what had gone wrong, but in that moment, Brynjolf was simply thankful he would have the chance to hear the story from Vex's own lips. He wouldn't press her about it just then. Perhaps after she stopped shaking in her boots, but before she dried out and he took her back to the cistern.

There was time yet.

At that moment, however, he had an edgy mercenary standing before him, one who would go straight to Maven when he left the boilery, and there were a few things Brynjolf needed to make perfectly clear before he let that happen.

He looked to Vex slumping in her chair. He was sharply reminded of the return of Etienne Rarnis and the chaos he'd dragged in with him when he'd escaped the Thalmor a few months past.

This wasn't the cloak-and-dagger Dominion, though. This was guild business. This was _Vex_.

And he was the one who had sent her in.

"Will you be all right while I –"

She cut him off. "I will kill you if you talk to me like that one more time. Don't make me kill you, Bryn."

"Such a sweetheart you are, lass," he said with a smile, and left her alone. He slipped into the shadows and out of her line of sight – not that he was entirely certain she watched him go. She seemed drawn inward, and just by the look of her, he couldn't say he blamed her.

Maul hadn't moved, keeping his distance from Vex, but in his eyes Brynjolf could read impatience.

"Found her in the lake, out past the fishery," said Maul, offering his side of things without having been asked. The gentle rattle of the simmering vats all but blocked out their conversation. It was a good hiding place. "She was holding on to the collapsed pier, couldn't pull herself up out of the water."

"And no one else saw you?"

Maul shrugged his massive shoulders. "Can't be too sure. There's a pair of guards out on patrol, but they're sticking pretty close to the gate tonight."

Brynjolf smirked. He knew very well that what kept those guards close to the gate on that night of all nights was the weight of Maven's gold in their pockets, but if Maven had decided that such information did not concern the mercenary, Brynjolf was not about to go against her. And so he shook his head instead, as if he found the whole thing lamentable but entirely beyond his control.

Vex's own poor luck.

"Did she say anything to you?"

"Grieved my maiden's ear with all her cussing."

Brynjolf laughed. "Aye, I don't doubt that, but did she say what happened?"

"Not a word. That's why I came for you."

"I'm glad you did. Let me have until morning before you go to Maven. Then she can having something to chew on at breakfast. I need a chance to give Mercer the heads up, eh?"

"Sure, Bryn."

He clapped the mercenary on the shoulder. "I'm in your debt, friend," he said. These were not words he used lightly, if at all – _ever –_ but it was a debt he was more than willing to incur on Vex's behalf. There was no denying he had a soft spot for the girl, though it was beyond him why she allowed it, and he doubted he could have borne the guilt if she'd been caught or killed because he sent her in unprepared.

He leaned back and craned his neck to see past the towering vat to take in the sight of Vex, shivering beneath a blanket and so reminiscent of Rarnis that he had to look away. After all, one look at her was all he really needed to know that she was hurt and shaken and angry, that nothing had gone according to plan.

"Thank you again," he said to Maul, and nodded toward the door.

As he watched the mercenary lumber up the stairs, he let loose a sigh and ran his hands slowly through his hair, but it was only when he heard the doors to the docks creak shut that he stepped out of his shadowy little corner. He found a chair and placed it in front of Vex. He sat down and put his elbows to his knees, leaning toward her.

"Tell me what happened, lass."

His little Vex was trembling, but at the sound of his voice she tensed, tried to stop it, to put an end to such weakness as human frailty and the limitations of her own body. Her leg jounced forcefully with the effort. He'd never seen her more agitated, more _vexed _than she was in that moment. Mara's mercy, he hoped never to again.

She sniffed. "Maven's got a big problem on her hands, Bryn. _We've _got a big problem."

"Aye, I can see that much. I was looking for a bit more elaboration."

"Aringoth has gone and hired mercenaries to protect the estate," she said, wincing as she shifted. "There's not a city guardsman on the whole island."

"How's that, then?" Brynjolf asked, scarcely believing it. "Who paid to keep that quiet?"

"I thought you were the one with all the information."

Brynjolf snorted. "A fair point."

"They caught me just inside the house," she said, pulling a face as if she found it distasteful, which he supposed it was. A thief like her, sleek and professional, caught by some blundering mercenary hired off the roadside. It was a damn shame. "They were patrolling the halls, Bryn. Expecting trouble."

"Aringoth was waiting for us to make a move," he said, shaking his head. "And what about you?"

Vex scoffed. "What about me?"

"Looks like you've been in quite the tangle." He raised an eyebrow at her, and she had the decency to look contrite, even if just for a moment. "If something's happened –"

"Something _has_ happened, Brynjolf," she said gravely. "Aringoth is locking down, locking us _out_. If we lose Goldenglow –"

He stared at her hard, and spoke in a tone that would brook no argument. "We won't lose Goldenglow. Have a little faith, lass. We will handle this, and Maven will have nothing to fret over." Soft spot or not, she needed to be reminded that such concerns were above her pay grade.

Vex looked sceptical. "What about Mercer?"

"Let me deal with Mercer. Just rest awhile. We'll head back to the Flagon soon."

He left her there in the smoky cellar of the meadery to wallow in her failure. He knew her well enough to leave her to it for a little while. He also knew that once she'd composed herself, she'd want to head straight back to the cistern. If he had to guess, he would say that she had no intention of allowing him to make excuses for her in front of the guild master.

It would infuriate Mercer. Bless her and that mouth of hers. And once Mercer was storming and stewing, once he'd taken to stalking the length behind his desk until he wore a furrow right into the stone, Brynjolf would swoop in with an easy smile, ready as ever with a risky solution to save their hides once more.

Now all he needed to do was find that solution.

The night's bitter cold hit him hard as he stepped outside. The wind was all frozen fingers, sneaking in beneath his collar and up his sleeves to steal all his warmth away. He braced himself against that thieving wind as he walked briskly past the fishery, down the pier to where a cog was moored. The pier was a mess of crates and rope and netting here, and would hide him well enough while he tried his best to collect his thoughts.

A deep shiver went through him as the cold settled properly in his bones. He did not envy Vex her swim, and the thought only served to fuel his guilt more. He pulled his hood up to guard against the wind, listening as it drove the water into white-capped waves to break against the wooden pilings beneath his boots. He tried to breathe a little deeper, to fill himself with winter's stark, empty peace. Lulled for a moment by the wind and the water, he watched as the lights of Goldenglow estate burned in the darkness at the centre of the lake.

In truth, Brynjolf was at a loss. In a single night, the situation with Goldenglow had gone from bad to worse, and unless the problem was remedied quickly, he had not the faintest idea how the guild would manage to redeem itself in Maven's eyes. Never mind for the moment the gold that all her lucrative and merciless business endeavours brought them. Maven's good opinion was crucial to the guild's very survival.

In a few days, the whole of the city would know that Aringoth had dismissed the city guard, who were notoriously the most effective of Maven's eyes and ears. Every shopkeeper and business owner in the hold would know that the glorified beekeeper had found some way to free himself from the iron grip of the Black-Briar family.

Every man, woman, and child in the city would know that the guild had failed to maintain the balance.

The very thought of the state of their reputation made Brynjolf snort, sending up a cloud of fog as the sudden burst of breath met the cold night.

It was a tenuous thing, their hold on the city. They were barely clinging to a purchase long ago eked out by the influence of the Black-Briar family. Maven's drive for dominance in all things had only increased their fortunes – but that golden time was twenty years gone now, and her confidence in them dwindled by the day. It was only the sure knowledge that Maven's need for the guild would never die that allowed Brynjolf to sleep at night, the dagger beneath his pillow notwithstanding.

What helped Mercer, the gods only knew.

Something in the distant dark drew his eye – _there_, again –

A burst of dragonfire rose high over the ruins in mountains to the northwest. It came once more, a brilliant jet of orange and yellow, before the sleek silhouette of the beast curved against the star-filled sky and disappeared into the depths of the night – blessedly away from the city.

Another shiver came over Brynjolf, one that had naught to do with the winter's chill. The dragons. The war. The guild's problems shrank by comparison, but these were matters that were close to his heart, and could not be banished in a simple, single moment of clarity.

Outside the walls of Riften, the world around him was shifting, shaking down to its foundations and being forged anew by great men and strange events, and though Mercer had ordered him to carry on with business as usual, even Brynjolf could not ignore just how much his little organization had been affected by the winds of change sweeping across Skyrim.

Ulfric's cause was gaining momentum; it was only a few weeks past that he'd marched his Stormcloaks to the gates of Whiterun. He'd taken the city in a matter of hours, and all those proud stone walls had stood for nothing.

It was said that he fought with a dragon at his side, a loyal pet he sent to do his bidding – it was also said that he had taken the dragon to his bed, that it would rule beside him as his queen and that all of Skyrim would burn before his lust for power and his dragon queen was sated.

Falkreath had been the next to fall, scarce a fortnight later, and with it, the Stormcloaks controlled all roads in and out of Cyrodiil. It increased the pressure upon the Imperials to retake Riften for the empire, putting their fair lady in the line of fire. Even though Mercer tried to keep the guild neutral to one side or another, it was undeniable that while a little competition was profitable, blood in the streets was not.

After all, the guild had been given a taste of the attentions of the Dominion, the focus of the war, and none among them was eager to repeat the experience.

How fate had intervened to bring that storm down on their heads, Brynjolf still didn't know. He wasn't certain if he'd ever find the answer.

Maven had yet to truly forgive them for their unforeseen involvement in the Dominion's affairs. Close to two months had passed since Etienne Rarnis had returned to the fold, the Thalmor on his heels. It was an incident that was rarely spoken of in the Flagon, though Brynjolf had heard the guards telling the tale amongst themselves while on patrol, that bloody, chaotic night in the Ratway when a light had been shone to reveal the hidden strings and rearrange the shadows.

And then there had been the girl. Archer, she'd named herself freely, while her eyes had betrayed her lie. _Madeline_, she'd whispered into his embrace, her voice giving away the vulnerability of the truth.

He still remembered her wildfire eyes, and the taste of her like a dagger, blood and steel upon his lips.

Gone, like candle smoke. Just a lingering memory that never had its moment to _be _before it was already gone.

Brynjolf had spent more of his own gold than he cared to admit using guild resources trying to track her down, but she and the old man she'd dragged out of Riften had disappeared into thin air the second they'd left the city. They could very well have crossed the border out of Skyrim, gone to Morrowind or Hammerfell, far beyond his contacts and his reach.

Despite what Mercer had said to convince the others, Brynjolf did not believe for even a moment that the Thalmor had caught up with her. She was a lucky one, he'd felt that in his gut the very instant he'd laid eyes on her. He'd tried to capture a little of that for himself and the guild, to no avail.

His own poor luck, that.

A strong gust of wind pulled at his hood, stealing his breath and interrupting his thoughts, as if reprimanding him for his pining. With a sigh, he shook off the cold and with a last dragon-seeking glance, turned away from the mountains and the lake, and hurried up the pier back to the meadery.

Dawn was not long off, and he needed to get Vex back to the cistern.

She was waiting for him just inside at the top of the cellar stairs, arms crossed, that signature dour frown securely in place.

"How's that cold for you?" she asked, quite cheeky for a half-drowned cat. Though she was still pale as a winter peach, she'd cleaned herself up a bit and had pulled most of the reeds from her hair. More like herself, a sight to make him smile.

"It's a little too chill for my blood," he teased, knowing he could handle the cold better than most in the guild.

"Are you done making me wait?"

He chuckled, and gestured up the stairs. "Aye, that I am. Let's go – oh, and lass? Tread quietly now. We are still trespassing after all. Wouldn't want to bring the guard down on our heads."

Vex rolled her eyes at him, and gave him a little shove. "I wouldn't dare. It would ruin the lovely evening we're having. You always take me to the nicest places, Bryn."

He smirked at her back as she slipped past him up the stairs.

_It's a charmed life we lead, little one, _he thought, but he could not find his smile again nor convince himself the words any truer than the lie they really were. Some days he managed, but not tonight.

The guards patrolling the streets and the plaza paid them little mind, though he kept Vex close, and she gave a few drunken stumbles for full effect. It was a quiet night, cold and full of stars. For all the dire news brought in on the wind of late, dragons and vampires and Stormcloaks, Riften had seen little of such troubles. Since the incident with the the girl and the Thalmor down in the warrens, life in his cozy little corner of Skyrim had been dull – and, he was sorry to say, downright _boring._

That was, at the very least, until Maul had slipped unnoticed into the cistern mere hours before to whisper in his ear that Vex was in a bad way and that he should come at once.

Brynjolf had never been one to believe in signs from the gods. He was not a devout man, but neither was he a faithless one. Aside from the obligatory pleas in times of crisis – of which themselves were few and far between – Brynjolf tended to leave the gods alone as they had chosen to leave him all those years ago.

It was a mutually beneficial agreement, the best there was.

But the dragonfire on the mountainside had him thinking, and that in turn became a hollowed pull somewhere inside him, less guesswork and more gut instinct, and by the time he and Vex had ducked into the deep shadows of the temple courtyard, he was all but certain that the troubles were just beginning again.

Something was coming, as _something _always did when the guild was unprepared, only this time – perhaps his eyes had been open to see the sign.

Vex knocked his arm away when they entered the mausoleum. She pressed the button with the toe of her boot, leaving a wet imprint in the frost. The stone plate slid smoothly out of the way, and the grate to the cistern beckoned, torchlight gleaming faintly from below.

"Can we get this over with now?" she asked.

"After you, lass," he said, watching as she descended sulkily into the darkness. He gave one last look to the night sky and its scattered stars, but the hulking mountains over the city were empty and still, and there was nothing to see but shadows.


	2. A Mother's Blessing

Author's Note: Much love for the kind reception! This tale is proving much more interesting than I had first anticipated...

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**The Fortunate Favourite  
Chapter Two: A Mother's Blessing**

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Ever since she was a very little girl, her _maman _had told her that she was her father's child without question, a true daughter of Skyrim with ice and stone in her veins.

This was, of course, no compliment. It always came muttered with a sigh of exasperation over every bruise and blister, over each lost trifle and torn dress, but ever with a warmth and softness in her eyes as she gazed down at the wild and tempestuous child the gods had blessed her with.

It was what Madeline remembered most about her _maman_, now almost three years since her passing, her shameful mess of a childhood and those secret smiles meant only for her. She remembered, as well, how those smiles had begun to fade as the years had passed and she grew into a young woman, as the blisters became callouses and the dresses went unworn, as her studies languished and her bold tongue outgrew her common sense.

She had grown still since then. She had learned much – most of all to be mindful of her mouth, especially considering all the trouble it had gotten her into since she'd come home to Skyrim. Because she _was _home, she told herself again, no matter how many times it had almost gotten her killed. She doubted Adeleira Villiers would be very proud of her daughter, Arkay guide her, but –

But Madeline didn't know what else to do. She just wanted to be done running.

The world, for its part, had seemed to begrudgingly settle alongside her into this uneasy compromise. The road through the Rift had been quiet, as if the cold had chased all the travellers back to their hearths and the animals to their dens, and she now found herself surrounded by nothing but winter's stillness. She'd seen little and less trouble since the Reach, since Rorikstead and this precarious truce she'd brokered with the gods, and for that she was grateful. Her body had mostly recovered, but she could not say the same for her heart or her peace of mind.

The sky was open and clear that day, but she stayed close to the road, not daring to venture into the trees where the snowdrifts might run deeper and trolls were known to lurk. She did not know this road as well as she knew others that crisscrossed from one hold to the next, but she was no fool to think for even a moment that the wending road with its illusive calm was safe. She kept her bow at the ready, and her quiver was full enough to give her some semblance of peace.

Her bravery might have fled from her somewhere along the way, but she still had her resolve, that stubborn streak her _maman _had lamented so, and to it she clung as she travelled across the icy countryside. Ivarstead was behind her and she was determined to make Riften before nightfall.

Her legs ached. She knew she was pushing herself too hard. The disaster and misfortune of the Reach was still not so very far behind her; too much of her blood had soaked into its stony soil and still all these mornings later she woke as fatigued as when she'd closed her eyes. All Jouane had done to save her life and nurse her back to health felt as if it were unravelling inside of her as she pressed on toward Riften.

_You must rest_, the old healer had implored when she refused to stay, poor Erik standing behind him, his young face lined with worry, and he'd said –

She tried to shake the thought from her head, but it was a foolish hope. Their faces and their dark and gentle words trailed after her like an echo of voices on the wind.

At midday, she stopped on the bank of the Treva River. She sat on a fallen log and ate a meagre meal, trying to give herself the rest she knew she needed. A deer ambled along the opposite shore, sleek and graceful, its head turning to watch the ice floes drift downstream to Lake Honrich. When it saw her, it bolted off into the trees.

All the while, her bow remained propped at her side where she'd left it. She sighed, thinking of how hungry she was and how little gold there was in her coinpurse, but she thought, too, on the time she could not spare to salvage and scrape the hide. She doubted her little dagger would make a very good job of it at any rate. Most of her hunting gear, her tools and her knives, had been left behind at Hjerim. They would gather dust there for an eternity before she ever returned for them.

That dreadful lonely house would be a fitting tomb for the life she'd tried to keep.

Again she sighed. Her shoulders sagged and would not square no matter the effort she put into it – which, to be honest, was not much to begin with. She was just so godsdamned _tired_.

She was a long time in convincing herself to stand. Her legs just did not want to bear her weight. She thought that if perhaps she could leave a piece of herself behind, if she could just _stay_ on that riverbank somehow, watching the pristine birch forest with its blanket of white and the floes bobbing along in the current, she might _somehow_ find the rest she needed.

And if the Thalmor came along, or if Ulfric's men caught up with her, or if the World Eater himself descended in a fury of blood and fire, then by the gods, she might somehow find the courage to face it.

But instead –

Instead she ran. Toward Riften and a promise made by a thief in the heat of intrigue. He'd probably forgotten it just as quickly.

She had no choice but to hope otherwise. There was nowhere else to go from here.

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...

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She was close to the city when she came across a brutish mercenary leaning against a tree. He seemed to be guarding a cobbled lane that led over a pair of bridges to an island at the centre of the lake. The estate on the island was impressive, almost picturesque, something she hadn't noticed on her first visit to Riften, though she'd come and gone along this very road. Preoccupied, she supposed.

The mercenary glared at her. "Riften's that way, keep moving."

Archer didn't move. "I was just looking. What is this place?"

"Not in the habit of telling a woman twice," the mercenary laughed, but there was no one else there to laugh with him at his little quip. When she still didn't move, he straightened and pulled the axe from his belt, showing her the wicked glint along the blade in the fading sunlight.

She put up her hands, in no mood – or condition – to fight. "Divines smile on you," she said, rolling her eyes as she turned and walked away.

She overtook a fisherman farther down the road, his pole over his shoulder. The basket he carried in the opposite hand was empty, accounting for the pace at which he dejectedly trudged along.

"Boss is going to have my hide," he said woefully as she passed by him. "Those mercenaries chased me off."

Archer said nothing, only offered up an encouraging smile over her shoulder as she hurried toward the city.

The sun was setting at her back as she reached the south gate, a haze of fiery orange and deepest rose. She kept her hood up to hide her hair and shadow her eyes. Her face marked her Breton and the pale green robe she wore beneath her cloak gave the impression of an initiate mageling, untrained, unassuming, non-threatening.

The guard at the gate let her pass with nothing more than a nod of the head, yawning and muttering some halfhearted warning about respecting the law.

She smiled to herself beneath her hood as she pulled the heavy gate open just wide enough to slip through. She'd arrived just before the changing of the next shift, and while she didn't know much about Riften, one thing that seemed painfully clear was that word had a way of travelling fast here, whether you wanted it to or not.

This is what Archer remembered about Riften:

The scent of stagnant water, the creak of bloated wood; moss so soft and think beneath her boots that she left wet footprints across the cobblestones as she walked; that the guards were too permissive and the beggars too bold; the echoing empty promises of a confidence man with the most agreeable voice she'd ever heard; the ring of the blacksmith's hammer across the crowded market; the mist on the water, the cool depths of the shadows, the cry of children in the shade of the keep.

She had never known quite what to _make_ of Riften, her one visit to the city now just a blur of faces and names and _him _in her memory, spotted with blood and smelling of rot and misery. Delphine. Brynjolf. Esbern. All of it left far behind, yet here she was, circling back to a corpse long cold, hoping that perhaps its pockets had not been picked clean.

She was not so foolish as to think she could seek him out, not with the mess she'd made the last time she'd shown up on his doorstep.

No, she had to wait for him to come to her. Just as before.

As she made her way to the inn, she came to the conclusion that winter suited Riften well, softening the slow decay and neglect with a cloak of ice and snow. The air seemed cleaner, fresher, as if some of the misleading beauty of the Rift had finally crept into the city itself. She stayed on the far side of the canal to avoid the market proper. The little plaza was a crowded place this time of day, but even from a distance she could see that two of the stalls stood empty and her thief was not there.

She paused then, watching the market with a heavy hand on the frosty wooden rail, the waters of the canal gently lapping against the pilings far below her. For one terrible moment, she found herself rethinking her entire plan of attack and a deep chill settled over her. It was not that she hadn't considered the fact that he might refuse her, but it seemed she had forgotten to take into account that she might not have the opportunity to approach him at all.

She shivered. She knew there was nothing to do but wait now.

The inn was called the Bee and Barb, and it was kept by a fierce, sharp-tongued Argonian woman named Keerava who looked as likely to breathe fire as any dragon Archer had ever met. She was kindly enough, though, when she realized she had a paying customer on her hands, and the inn was clean and warm. Archer paid her for a room and supper, and allowed herself to be shown upstairs.

She'd done this song and dance before, of course, not knowing the first time what end it would lead to. While she'd once known an innkeeper to be more than she appeared, Keerava held no love for the Thieves Guild and was _exactly_ as she appeared. Archer could take comfort in that.

Comfort enough to sleep a few hours, anyway.

Sleep, however, could not be further from her mind then. She ate quickly because she was famished, and it was only once she was done that she shrugged off her cloak and hood and hung them on a peg. She stripped herself of her robe and breeches, leaving them to air by the glowing brazier before she went about washing the sweat and blood from her person, trying very, very hard not to think on how long it had been since she'd properly scrubbed the dirt from beneath her nails.

The soft blue dress and cloth slippers still carried the chill of the day's travel when she dug them out of her rucksack. She shivered as she dressed and was not slow in fastening her cloak about her shoulders again. She stood for a long time after warming herself at the brazier, lost to thought.

When she finally emerged from her room, it was long past supper and the great hall below had grown crowded with locals seeking out meal and mead – along with their daily dose of news and rumour, of course. She might very well have been invisible as she descended the stairs. It was nothing for her to pull her hood up over her still wet hair and linger for a moment in the long shadows that clung to the edge of the room like cobwebs. More than a dozen men and women filled the hall with shouts and smoke and laughter, all trying to speak over one another, to be heard above all the rest.

But she did not see her thief with the casual glance, the man in the business of deals.

She remembered the first time she had met Brynjolf, soft-spoken and ruggedly handsome, leaning against the wall of the inn and watching the crowd as if he had all the right in the world to do everything at his own leisure. He'd made her immediately uneasy with those striking green eyes and the devilish grin that had promised gold and trouble.

Delphine was the one who had given her his name and Archer had still trusted her then, blindly and without question.

When it was all over, Brynjolf had asked her to stay, offered her a place with his guild when he scarcely knew anything about her at all – more the fool was he, and luckier than he knew not to be dragged into the trouble that followed her like a plague. But it had tugged at her then, that offer of his, and it continued to haunt her all this time later, after Delphine, after Esbern –

After Whiterun.

It was not long after that cheering thought that the raucous clamour of the inn began to get to her, but even after she'd slipped out the door and escaped into the bitter cold night the noise in her head did not die. A thousand stars burned in the black sky over her head, all was quiet and still but for the chaos inside her still raging, the clash of steel and the shouts for glory and blood, for Talos, the Empire...

She blinked back the tears that threatened to spill and mark her cheeks with cowardice. She wanted no brand for the world to see, silly girl in a threadbare cloak, little lamb all by her lonesome. She took a deep, steadying breath that seared her lungs with cold, over and again until her throat unknotted and her heart quit its painful leaping.

She didn't know how long she stood there leaning against the wall of the Bee and Barb trying to keep herself from coming undone, but after some time a guard approached, carrying with him a torch and a warming circle of light. He peered curiously at her through the slits in his helm, and when he spoke, it was with the softest and hollowest of echoes.

"You should not be out here, miss. These streets are not safe after dark. Go back inside."

"Tell me where the streets _are _safe at night," she said with sad smile. "I think I would like to go there."

"As would I," the guard said, "but that changes nothing here. Back inside with you."

"There is nothing in there for me," she said, cringing at the very thought of the noise and the ruin it had made of her calm. She sighed, realizing the guard was not going to relent. "If you insist I get off your streets, then I will go to the temple."

"Come along then," said the guard, "I will see you there safely."

Beneath her hood, Archer rolled her eyes – but she went along just the same, following the torch along the boardwalk and across the canal to the temple courtyard. At the bottom of the steps, the guard left her with his well wishes and went about his patrol. She hurried up to the door, eager now to get out of the cold.

The interior of the temple was dimly lit, the flicking glow of the dying braziers casting long shadows across the floor. The boards beneath her feet creaked as she moved away from the door. It was warm in the temple, warmer than the inn had been, and she pulled her hood away from her face lest she be stifled by the smoke and the drifting aroma of burning mountain flowers.

She had caught a priest dozing in his chair, but he leapt to his feet upon waking to the sight of her standing shivering on the threshold. A Nord with plaits in his hair, he smiled sleepily at her.

"Welcome, traveller," he said. "Mara's light shine upon you this cold, dark night."

"The light of your fires will serve just as well," said Archer with a tight smile.

"If you seek the priest's blessing, you must wait until morning."

She shook her head. "I only seek a quiet place. May I sit?"

"All are welcome," said the acolyte, and gestured to the small collection of pews before the altar. Just as the guard had, he left her alone.

The statue wept its ethereal tears for her as she sat down. The supplication of the goddess did nothing to impress Archer. She had never known any mother but her own, never known any divine but Kynareth in all her wild grace. She knew wind, she knew _change. _Life had shown her little of benevolent forgiveness or encompassing love. Since arriving in Skyrim, she'd seen little more than war and betrayal, vengeance masquerading as concern for the good of all, and the burden of true honour to the man who would make himself High King...

What she had come to know of love was nothing more than a scorched memory now, something greater than love, deeper than passion, something fierce and consuming and utterly without mercy, a mess of tattered loyalty and broken promises that had left Skyrim bleeding.

That was what she _knew_.

And this weeping mother before her with her teachings of compassion and forgiveness was nothing to her at all.

That very morning, she had awoken to a narrow bed in a cold room in Ivarstead, the winter wind whistling as it found the gaps in the walls, pulling her from a sleep that had never truly claimed her. Into the grey dawn she'd stepped, into the shadow of the mountain, and every hope of redemption she'd held onto, every good intention she'd carried in her heart, all of it vanished as the sun crested over trees and suddenly absolution was seven-thousand steps too far out of her grasp. Small and shamed, she had turned her back on all of it as the morning light touched upon the sacred mountain. With no purpose, no place to go, she had foolishly followed her feet and hadn't stopped until she'd reached Riften.

Now here she was, and for what?

An empty stall and a forgotten promise, that was what she'd done it for.

With a sigh, she touched her cool hands to her eyes, to press them closed and shut out the sight of Lady Mara and all the goodness, selflessness, and mercy that she herself would never possess.

"Oh, Maddie," she scolded herself, "what are you doing here?"

"That's a fair question, lass."

She would find it very disconcerting later on just how badly he startled her then. She whirled around in her seat to see him standing at the back of the small chapel, bracing a shoulder casually against the wall, a thick leather hood pulled up over his long auburn hair.

"_You_," she said, suddenly breathless, but it was stranger still how taken by surprise she sounded when she'd planned it that way from the beginning. Just as she'd known he would – hoped and prayed he would – he had given into his curiosity, the talk of his town, and come to find her first.

Brynjolf lifted his head then to give her a wolfish grin, his eyes like candlelight.

And all at once the world ceased to turn.


End file.
